


Come on the Rising Wind

by chemm80



Series: Fortunate Son [2]
Category: Sons of Anarchy, Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-07
Updated: 2011-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-01 17:13:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemm80/pseuds/chemm80
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><strong>Sequel to Fortunate Son</strong>.  Fresh off their escape from the FBI in Arkansas, Sam’s visions draw the Winchesters to Charming, California and into the dangerous world of Jackson Teller. They’ve come to save Jax from the fate Sam has foreseen, but nothing is ever that simple. </p><p>Jax is keeping secrets from his brothers, Sam isn’t seeing everything as clearly as he thinks, and Dean just wants to go to Vegas. Turns out, the trick is getting everyone out alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come on the Rising Wind

_Gallup, New Mexico_

A freight train roars through the middle of town, directly across the street from their motel room. Sam squints against the sunlight flashing off its chrome trim, both hears and feels the blast of the big engine’s horn as it rattles the window glass in its frame. 

Then the vision crashes over Sam like a wave from the wake of the train, and he’s going down. 

Pain slices through his brain like a hot steel blade, white light and disjointed images flashing behind his scrunched eyelids, metallic tang filling his mouth—it’s just like all the other times, only worse…it keeps getting worse, damn it. 

Sam drops to his knees, pressing the heels of his hands hard against his temples, and a stain on the motel carpet comes into oddly sharp focus for a few seconds. 

_Looks just like a skull_ , he thinks, and the vision pulls him under.

It feels like a long time later—always does, but never is, the goddamned things never last more than a few seconds in real time— and Sam hears himself panting as he comes to, registers the feel of Dean holding onto him, of strong fingers digging into his upper arms. Dean’s not trying to rouse him, not trying to pull Sam to his feet; he knows better by now, has learned to read the signs and wait for the spasm to pass. 

_We’re getting used to this_ , Sam realizes, and it’s as unwelcome a thought as he’s ever had. 

He hears Dean ask him something, probably inquiring after his well-being, but Sam’s stomach gives a sudden vicious roll, and he staggers only half-upright to the bathroom. He vomits loudly and violently, most of the mess making it into the toilet. 

Dean doesn’t say a word as Sam pants and spits, doesn’t comment on Sam’s moan when another spasm hits—dry this time—but after a minute a wet washcloth appears in his peripheral vision. Sam hesitates for a few seconds to be sure he’s done, then takes the blessedly cool scrap of fabric and uses it to swab the sweat and puke off his face, finally turning it over to the clean side to press it back over his eyes and forehead.

Sam shifts sideways and drops the rest of the way to the floor, ass on the tiles and back leaning against the bathroom wall. Dean clears his throat from somewhere in the general vicinity of the tub. 

“So,” Dean says, “where to?” 

Sam pulls the washcloth off his face and just looks at Dean. Something of his dismay must show in his face, because Dean’s expression turns dubious with a side order of alarm.

“What? Where could we possibly need to go that’d be worse than Gallup fucking New Mexico?” Dean asks.

“It’s not _where_ that’s the problem,” Sam says, voice raspy from the irritation in his throat. 

Dean’s brows draw together in question.

“It’s _who_.”

***

“Dude,” Dean starts, then reaches over to shake Sam’s left shoulder when Sam keeps his eyes deliberately closed. Sam’s inhales deeply, shifts in the passenger seat and opens his eyes, resigning himself to one more round.

“What,” Sam says, trying to make his lack of interest obvious in his tone.

“Look.”

Dean points at a huge green sign that looms over the right lane of the highway, reflective lettering spelling out “Las Vegas Exit 1 Mile.” Sam grits his teeth. 

It’s a little over nine hundred miles from Little Rock, Arkansas to Gallup, New Mexico, and about that far again to Charming, California. In Sam’s estimation, that’s not too much distance to put between themselves and the Green River County Detention Center, which is actually pretty much how they ended up in Gallup in the first place—just turned west out of that damned cemetery and kept on going. 

They’re definitely not too far from Victor Henriksen.

But in the last three hundred miles, since they left Gallup, Sam is pretty sure they’ve had this same conversation or a variation thereof three hundred times. At least.

“We should just go there instead,” Dean continues. 

“Dean…”

“Showgirls, strippers…dude, prostitution is _legal_ …”

Sam groans and lets his head flop against the seatback.

“I’m just sayin’…an outlaw biker club might not be the best place for two fugitives from the FBI to hole up. It’s not exactly laying low.”

“Dean, Jax knows us.”

Dean snorts.

“Yeah. One of us in the biblical sense.”

Sam’s face suddenly feels hot. 

He and Dean had never really talked about what happened the last time they were in Charming, what had passed between Sam and Jax when they were alone. As far as Sam was concerned it was no big deal, but that didn’t mean it was something he wanted to sit around discussing with his brother. It was between him and Jax.

But Sam isn’t blind. The morning after he had narrowly escaped becoming the last victim of Hardeman’s ghost, Dean and Jax had both been sporting some pretty impressive bruises. They could have been from the fight with the spirit, of course, but that wouldn’t be Sam’s first guess. 

Sam isn’t stupid, either. The idea of Dean fighting with Jax over Sam’s dubious _honor_ or whatever is unbelievably ridiculous, but Sam thinks it also seems like something that Dean would probably do. Sam had thought about bringing it up at the time but since they had left Charming almost immediately, and since Jax and Dean had seemed to be parting on reasonably good terms, Sam had let it go. 

“I meant that Jax knows what we do, what we did for him in Charming, you dick,” Sam finally says.

Dean snorts.

“Yeah, well…maybe he owes you a little more than what he owes me,” Dean says, with that annoying smirk that always makes Sam want to knock his teeth down his throat. Since that isn’t an option while Dean is doing eighty miles an hour down Interstate 40, Sam exhales an exasperated breath and tries again.

“Is that really what this is about, Dean? What are you, Rush Limbaugh all of a sudden?”

Dean sighs.

“No…I know, okay? I don’t want Jax to die any more than you do. I’m just surprised he’s making this so easy for us, is all. I mean they’re gun runners, right? I wouldn’t think they’d want to risk bringing that kind of attention—federal attention— down on themselves. “

Sam shrugs and pretends to suddenly find the view really interesting. Dean doesn’t fall for the ruse, hasn’t done in as long as Sam can remember, but Sam would like to buy just a minute or two to think of an answer that Dean might believe.

“Sam?” Dean says meaningfully, leaning his head forward to try to catch Sam’s eye. “What did Jax say when you called him? You did call him, right?”

Sam chances a little sidelong glance at Dean, while still trying to look innocent. 

“Yeah, I called him.”

“And?”

“He answered, so I knew he was still okay. And I haven’t had another vision, so…”

Dean narrows his eyes and takes his foot off the accelerator. Once they’re stopped, Dean turns his stern older brother expression on Sam. Apparently Operation Don’t Look Guilty was a spectacular failure.

“You didn’t tell him we’re coming, did you?”

“No,” Sam says. 

Dean’s eyebrows shoot high on his forehead. 

“Then what the fuck did you tell him?”

Sam huffs. 

“I called him, he answered, he sounded fine, I hung up,” he recites. 

Of course there was a little more to it than that. Jax had wanted to know why Sam was calling; of course he had. After all these months, what could Sam say? 

_What’s new? Oh, not much, Jax…survived a demon virus a few months back…the FBI is following the trail of dead bodies we habitually leave behind us…oh, and did I mention the death visions?”_

Right. 

“Oh, that’s great,” Dean breaks into Sam’s morbid inner monologue. “Sam, we are four hundred miles from Charming and I’m not driving another mile of that until you call that scruffy son of a bitch and let him know we’re coming.”

Sam sighs. 

“You’re right,” he says and gets out his phone. 

“Wait,” Dean says, putting a restraining hand on Sam’s wrist. “What are you gonna tell him?” 

“The truth, I guess, since you’re all about the advanced warning.”

“Oh, the truth, yeah, cause that always goes over so well. Come on! ‘Hey, Jax, we were just in the neighborhood and thought we’d drop in. Oh, by the way, noticed any demonic omens lately?’ Jesus, Sam.”

“Do you want me to call him or not, Dean?”

“Just tell him we’re looking for guns or something…hey, yeah, in fact, that might be a good thing anyway. Maybe they can get us an RPG…always wanted one of those…” Dean trails off as Sam holds the phone to his ear, motions for quiet.

“Jax, yeah, hey…Sam Winchester. Yeah. Are you…I mean, uh…is everything all right?” Sam waits.

“No, I mean, sure, it’s just I had this vis…uh…” 

Dean holds up both hands in a “really?” gesture and tops it off with a dramatic roll of his eyes, and Sam stops, sighing. As much as he hates to admit it, Dean’s probably right about this.

“So Jax, the thing is…we’re in the market for some weaponry…”

***

The inside of the Samcro compound looks like any other auto shop, if you don’t count the addition of about a hundred more Harleys than usual. They’re slotted side by side on the concrete apron in front of the clubhouse, reminding Dean of all the movies he’s seen where someone gives the bike on the end of a long line of them a hard shove and they all fall over like a row of dominoes. Dean’s tempted. 

The bikers are huddled inside the clubhouse in some sort of emergency meeting of the Grand Poobahs or something, while Dean and Sam lean on the hood of the Impala in the hot sun, waiting for them to make up their minds about whether or not to let the big, bad Winchesters in, or whatever. Sam is chewing on his thumbnail. 

Dean sighs, pushes himself up off the car and glances at the bikes again, but instead of committing an act of vandalism (not to mention suicide), he wanders over to the open garage bays. He steps into the shade of the building and inhales the soothing smells of grease and metal, wanders closer to where a couple of mechanics are working, but he’s careful to stay well out of the way. 

The men are both wearing uniform shirts with Teller-Morrow Auto patches on the pockets, loudly announcing the business’ legitimacy. Dean doesn’t know if they’re bikers, MC wannabes, ex-cons or what, but they’re rough-looking enough for any of the above to be a possibility. 

They each glance up briefly as they catch sight of Dean and he nods back, then leans casually against the doorframe. It’s been a while since he’s been inside an actual auto shop and it’s about all he can do not to roll up his sleeves and pitch in, hands twitching with the need to get a little grease under his fingernails. 

The background noise of engine maintenance relaxes Dean, always has. John once told Dean that he was the only kid he’d ever seen who could fall asleep to the sound of an air wrench, and Dean thinks that’s probably still true. Even now, with the pain of losing Dad sitting heavy in his chest like an old bruise, the familiar surroundings—the clipped, efficient conversation of the mechanics, the click and scrape of heavy metal tools and the oil-and-dust smell of the concrete—make him feel kind of like he’s come home. 

His eyelids have started to droop when he hears the raised voices back near the car. Apparently the big powwow is over, because Jax is outside now, talking to Sam. He’s talking pretty pointedly too, from the look of things, the way Jax is leaning up into Sam’s space and frowning.

Dean moves quickly back to where he left his brother, noting as he does that several of Jax’ brothers are now positioned rather strategically around the Impala. They’re trying to act casual about it—one fiddling with a tow truck parked between the clubhouse and the garage, another sitting under the awning of the clubhouse, hunched on top of a picnic table like a black-vested vulture—but Dean’s not fooled. Something has made them wary of Sam and Dean, more than usual, and he wonders what’s up. 

“…wanted by the fucking _FBI_ ,” Jax is saying, as Dean gets within earshot.

Oh. That would explain why they’re suddenly at Biker Def Con Three. 

Dean sighs. It’s not like he wants anything bad to happen to Jackson Teller, he really doesn’t, but just once it’d be nice if potential victims didn’t make it quite such a pain in the Winchesters’ asses to save _their_ asses. 

“Jax,” Dean says, with a rueful, perfunctory almost-smile. Jax cuts his eyes at Dean, then refocuses on Sam. 

“Do you know how hard it was to get you two this far inside?” Jax asks, quietly furious. He huffs out a breath, seems to lose a little steam. “Look,” he continues, “I know I owe you guys. Hell, the whole town of Charming owes you big time, but the FBI…man, what am I supposed to do with that?” 

Sam nods, closes his eyes briefly.

“Would it help if I told you we aren’t actually here after weapons?” Sam asks.

Jax’ eyes narrow as he studies Sam. 

“I’m not guaranteeing anything, but being straight with me probably wouldn’t hurt,” he says cautiously. 

Sam nods again. 

“Sam…” Dean starts.

“No, Dean, he’s right. Jax…” Sam pauses, takes a deep breath and lets it out before continuing. “I have these…visions.”

Jax raises one eyebrow, but he doesn’t say anything.

“They’re death visions. They always come true, exactly as I see them, and yesterday…yesterday I saw you.”

Jax pauses, then says flatly, disbelievingly, “You saw me die. In a dream.”

“Yeah, that’s…close enough.”

Sam looks away from Jax, but Dean can see his face clearly. The downturn of his brother’s mouth makes Dean’s chest ache, and he clears his throat. They’ve been here too many times lately.

“For fuck’s sake,” Dean interrupts gruffly. “We came to save your ass, and it’s hot as hell out here, and the least you could do is buy us a beer.”

Jax gives him the hard eyes for a minute, but Dean just raises one eyebrow slightly and returns the look without effort. Jax breaks the stare after a moment or two, looks around like he’s remembering where they are, how many eyes are watching their little drama play out. He jerks his head toward the main clubhouse entrance, where the door is guarded by a large depiction of the skeletal Samcro coat of arms, The Reaper. 

So, this is going about as well as he’d expected, Dean thinks. He glances at Sam, who’s watching Jax’ retreating back with a somewhat disturbing intensity, like the guy might evaporate any second, and Dean just shakes his head. 

They follow Jax into the Reaper’s shadow. 

Jax does get them a beer, even if he still doesn’t look too happy about it. Dean sucks his down gratefully, only partially as a cover for checking out their surroundings. 

The main room of the clubhouse looks like your ordinary bar, if you don’t count the framed mug shots in the back, the rack of baseball bats by the door. Jax wouldn’t let them inside until they disarmed, some sort of club rule. It seems a bit weird to Dean, considering guns are kind of what they do, but on the other hand, he guesses it makes sense not to keep the incriminating merchandise too close to hand…don’t shit where you eat and all that. 

The only person inside when they came in was a woman who was pretty much the stereotype of a biker chick—tattoos, short skirt and lots of jewelry—and she made a quick retreat at Jax’ gesture of dismissal. Although not before giving Dean a once-over, topped off with an appreciative smirk, which he acknowledged with a nod. Sam gave him the hairy eyeball for it, but whatever. He’s just being polite.

Jax seems to have dispensed with the niceties, for sure. It’s a pretty abrupt turnaround from the way he greeted them on their arrival, when he was still treating them like potential customers, at least, if not old friends. But FBI involvement will do that to people, Dean’s noticed.

“Okay. Start talking,” Jax says, eyeing them coldly across the table.

Sam takes a long swallow of his beer, then starts rubbing at his temple. There’s no reason that Sam should feel guilty about this, but he does. Dean can see it. 

“So…this vision, or whatever…” Jax prompts, finally.

Sam breathes deeply and lets it out, likes he’s steeling himself.

“I saw you, Jax,” Sam starts, and there’s something about the way his brother says the guy’s name that makes Dean’s chest tighten uncomfortably. He frowns slightly. 

Sam continues, “…and you were tied to a chair, no shirt…just beat to hell…bloody, and they were still working you over…”

Jax interrupts.

“’They’—who?”

“I don’t know,” Sam says, shaking his head. “Bikers for sure, wearing cuts, but I couldn’t read their patches.” Sam pauses. “I had all night to think about it. It’s just not there.” 

Jax looks thoughtful, but Dean notices he doesn’t seem particularly shocked by the vision’s subject matter. He guesses it’s not that unlikely a scenario, with the life Jax leads. Dean’s impression that kidnappings and beatings are just another day at the office for these guys only gets stronger when Jax speaks again.

“Rival MC, maybe? That’d be…” Jax shakes his head. “Don’t know of any that’d have the _cojones_ to start that kind of shitstorm with Samcro. Or, hell—with me.”

Dean raises an eyebrow at that, but Jax says it matter-of-factly and without a trace of arrogance, like it’s just the simple truth.

“Unless they were possessed,” Sam says, and that gets Jax’ attention.

“Possessed,” he says, a little doubtfully.

“By demons,” Sam continues. “I saw at least one set of black eyes.” 

Sam directs this last toward Dean and although this is new information to him, he’s not really that surprised. The vision’s very occurrence seems to indicate at least a basic level of demonic involvement. 

Jax has one eyebrow raised, mouth pursed to ask another question, when Dean abruptly reaches the end of his patience.

“Yes, Jax—demons. You’ve had a close encounter with a psycho killer ghost already, so can we please skip the ‘demons are real’ speech? We just drove sixteen hours to save your ass. Make up your mind Jax—are you gonna kick us to the curb or are you gonna let us do our job? Because I gotta say, I really don’t care much which way it goes right now as long as I can get some sleep.”

Sam gives Dean a slightly irritated glance but he doesn’t say anything, just waits for Jax, who considers for a minute before answering.

“Well, I can’t let you run around loose right now anyway, not until the FBI situation gets straightened out. Clay has made that perfectly clear. He wants you here at the clubhouse where we can keep an eye on you. Or where I can keep an eye on you. Personally,” he finishes with a sigh.

Dean doesn’t particularly care for the implication that they’re not free to leave, but then he’s not all that worried that a bunch of sorry-ass bikers can keep him and Sam here against their wills. 

Sam actually looks relieved and it brings Dean up short for a second. It almost seems like Sam was hoping for this. Then Dean realizes that at least this should make it easier to keep Jax under watch. If he’s being compelled to shadow the two of them, he can’t very well go charging off into some incipient death scenario. 

Huh. A potential victim glued to their sides for a change, instead of the other way around.

Dean decides he likes the idea, too.

**

“Well, boys, you’re officially guests of Samcro,” Jax tells them on their second night in Charming. 

They’d spent the first day and night recovering from the long trip and trying to get the lay of the land, Sam mostly venturing out into the public areas of the clubhouse only when it was necessary to keep an eye on Jax. 

“The girls will feed you and make sure you don’t run out of booze. Anything else on offer is up to them, but nobody’ll care if you take ‘em up on it,” Jax continues. 

All Sam can think is that they won’t be around long enough to worry about it one way or the other, but Dean raises an impressed eyebrow. 

“Sweet,” is all he says before he turns his back on the two of them and swaggers over to the bar to get a drink, flirting ostentatiously with the girl who serves it to him, of course. Jax watches him for a few seconds then quirks a little smile at Sam.

“I think he’s got the right idea,” Jax says.

Sam nods.

“Yeah. I could use a beer.

“So, it’s been a while…What’ve you two been up to?” Jax asks, once they’re seated and drinking.

Sam takes a deep breath and briefly closes his eyes. What’s he supposed to say here? 

“Wouldn’t know where to start,” Sam finally says. Jax just studies him for a moment, takes a long swallow from his bottle. 

Jax’ next question is asked casually enough, but he has to know it’s a loaded question, even if he doesn’t know all the reasons why.

“How’s your dad?”

And there it is. Sam feels the swoop in his gut that he always gets when he thinks about it all—the man himself and what he meant to his sons, the fucked-up crap surrounding his death, the wreckage left behind in its aftermath that they’re still trying to clean up.

It’s not like Sam’s a stranger to lying; he does it every damned day. And maybe he’s just tired and worried. Or maybe there’s an uncharacteristic sense of intimacy here, because he and Jax know each other a lot better than Sam knows most people who aren’t Dean. 

Whatever the reason, Sam says it straight out.

“Dead.”

Jax’ shocked face is pretty much what Sam would have expected if he’d thought about it at all, if he’d actually anticipated blurting out that particular unpleasant fact of their lives.

“Dude. I’m sorry,” Jax says, recovering. “What happened, man?”

“Demon.”

“Well, shit…I guess…huh.”

“Yeah,” Sam says shortly. “Any more questions?”

Jax looks at him for a minute.

“Well, yeah, actually. I mean, I am sorry about your dad, but I’ve damn sure got questions.”

But Sam is saved from having to answer any of them by the sudden scrape of a chair being shoved across the floor. Sam cranes his neck trying to locate the sound and his relief dies a quick death. 

Dean is right there in the middle of the commotion. Of course he is.

Dean’s facing off with a biker they call Tig, the MC’s Sergeant-at-Arms, a tall guy with dark hair that’s starting to recede a little, and a piercing, blue-eyed gaze. Sam noticed him immediately when they got here, realized on sight that he was a man they’d have to watch. 

The atmosphere in the compound has been tense since their arrival anyway, the Sons and the brothers circling each other warily in some teeth-baring, fur-bristling dance, like the pack of wild dogs they seem to have a lot in common with. Sam keeps looking over his shoulder, feeling like his backside is exposed, half expecting to turn around and find some biker sniffing his ass. It’s kind of ridiculous.

And Sam’s also overheard a couple of rude remarks Tig has tossed Dean’s way—Sam’s pretty sure he didn’t mishear the phrase “cock-sucking mouth”—but Dean’s gotten used to that kind of thing over the years and he’s just been responding with a tight little smile that probably only Sam notices, while pretending he didn’t hear. 

Until now, apparently.

Sam gets up from his chair to get a better view over the other men in the room. Dean is crouched into a fighting stance, waiting for Tig to make his move. Tig grins and Dean cocks an eyebrow, daring him. 

Sam is so focused on the confrontation that he doesn’t notice Jax is standing beside him until he speaks.

“Tig fights dirty,” Jax observes matter-of-factly, but he doesn’t appear to be too concerned about the fact that a brawl is about to break out. In fact, now that Sam thinks about it, none of the bikers seems inclined to join in the fight. 

“So does Dean,” Sam replies, shrugging.

Tig feints and jabs, but Dean dodges back. Tig misses, but not by much. 

If Dean was really serious about this fight, he’d have grabbed Tig’s arm and pulled him off balance at the end of that swing, gotten him in an armlock. The fact that Dean just punches back, grazing Tig’s jaw, tells Sam that Dean is in the mood to play for a bit. Sam’s not particularly surprised.

Tig responds with a right cross aimed at Dean’s temple, but it’s too obvious and Dean’s already somewhere else by the time Tig’s fist sweeps by his face. Dean jabs and Tig dodges; Dean feints and Tig swings. It goes on like that for several minutes, Tig’s grin becoming increasingly dark and feral. Dean never loses eye contact and he never stops smiling back, even as he punches, kicks, dodges. He’s clearly having a high old time.

Like most bar fights Sam’s seen, it only lasts a few minutes. Sam’s actually fairly impressed that Tig holds out as long as he does, even with Dean letting him have a little ground every now and then—they’re not too badly mismatched, skill-wise. Tig’s biggest weakness is that he’s quite a bit older than Dean, and he doesn’t fight monsters for a living. He starts to tire visibly after a few minutes, until Dean finally gets him in a clutch and nails him with a knee to the chin. 

Dean lets Tig slide bonelessly to the floor and drops him. Then he bends over with his hands on his knees, breathing hard, but still grinning like an idiot.

Groans issue from various members of their audience at Tig’s defeat, but no one shows any sign of wanting to avenge their fallen comrade. One of the bikers throws a pretzel at Tig’s prone form, and cat-calling and laughter from the onlookers follows. After about thirty seconds or so, Tig rolls over and looks up at Dean, panting and loudly hawking back snot. 

Dean smirks at him for second, then reaches out to help him up off the floor. Tig takes Dean’s hand and pulls himself to his feet, then spits on the floor about a foot from Dean’s boot, flashing the general company a grotesque, maroon-stained grin. 

Dean slaps him on the back and they stagger off to the bar together. They’re both soon on their way to being happily drunk. 

And that’s Dean for you, Sam thinks. As much as he tries to play at being the antisocial outsider, he has a way about him that just sucks everyone else into his orbit, and Sam thinks of the canine metaphor again. Dean knows exactly when to push back, when to show a little belly and when he’s got to turn all teeth and claws. Sam can’t help thinking that it’s kind of beautiful.

Sam stretches and yawns, releasing the last of the tension brought on by the fighting. He thought about trying to go to bed about an hour ago, but he’s learned from experience that the noise level won’t die down until at least midnight. He sits down at a table with his back against the wall, watching Dean talking to a pretty little Puerto Rican kid the bikers call Juice. 

Jax sits down across from Sam. 

“Juice seems pretty taken with  
your brother,” Jax says, nodding toward the pair.  
Sam snorts, nodding. 

Juice is leaning on the bar next to Dean, looking up at him through his eyelashes. Dean has on his slightly distracted, indulgent smile, the one he uses to acknowledge when someone’s paying attention to him but he doesn’t have any real interest in taking them up on whatever they’re offering. Sam’s lip curls slightly at the fact that he knows that about Dean, that he can tell at a glance what Dean’s intentions are.

Jax raises an inquiring eyebrow at him, but Sam shakes his head. Not something he could explain to an outsider even if he felt like trying. 

“He’s not the only one, either,” Jax says.

“Yeah. Dean’s never really lacked for female companionship,” Sam says, eyeing the pretty little bartender currently refilling Dean’s glass.

“No, I meant the Prospect,” Jax says.

Sam’s noticed the guy. It didn’t take him long to catalog all of the clubhouse regulars. Even if keen observation wasn’t one of Sam’s more valuable professional skills, these guys are some pretty memorable characters. 

Clay, of course, is the President of Samcro, and he plays the part with Godfatheresque aplomb, enthroned in the back of the room with his cigar and whiskey. Sam doesn’t doubt that he’s got an eye on him and Dean, but he also has the feeling that Clay is more interested in watching _Jax_ watch them, like this is some sort of test of Jax’ leadership abilities, or loyalty, or something. 

Tig sticks pretty close to Clay, usually, and Sam figures that in addition to his duties as an MC officer he fills some sort of bodyguard/enforcer role, considering the warning look he turns on anyone who ventures within arm’s reach of his boss. 

Piney is an older guy with an ever-present oxygen tank that he occasionally brandishes at an offending brother, and Sam remembers the first time he was in this clubhouse, a year or so ago now, when Jax outlined some of Samcro’s history for him. Piney is the other cofounder of the MC, along with Jax’s late father, John, but Sam hasn’t really had any interaction with the man. Piney doesn’t say much.

Bobby doesn’t talk a whole lot either, seems to be more of a counselor to the rest of the group. Sam’s impression of him as a figure of note is mostly based on the fact that whenever Bobby does decide to speak, the rest of the club listens. 

The prospect Jax is talking about, though…Sam hasn’t formed much of an opinion. He’s younger than most, but not that much younger than Juice. Sam’s pretty sure they call him JoJo, and he has a “Semper Fi” tattoo that covers most of his right forearm. 

“Yeah, I’ve seen him around,” Sam says, then notices the slight tightening around Jax’ mouth when he looks at the kid. “What? You don’t like him?”

Now that Sam thinks about it, the guy has been hanging around Dean a bit more than some of the others, but he’s done nothing that’s triggered any of Sam’s usual alarms.

Jax gaze snaps back to Sam like he’s waking up.

“What? No…he’s all right, I guess. That military ink translates to instant respect with a lot of these guys.”

“But not you?” Sam asks.

Jax meets his eyes for a second or two, like he’s trying to decide where Sam’s going with this, or maybe just how much he should say.

“Well, I didn’t serve, so I guess that makes a difference, but my dad did.” Jax pauses long enough that Sam gets the message _and so did yours_ before he continues. “I’ve got plenty of respect for the Corps, but JoJo…”

Sam waits.

“I can’t really put my finger on it. I just don’t get a good vibe from him,” Jax says, then he shrugs. “But hey, I thought Juice was about two quarts short of an oil change when we first got him and he’s one of our best—the best computer guy we have for sure—so what do I know?” 

Jax takes a long pull of his beer and changes the subject.

“Speaking of, does Dean know Juice is the one who found your FBI profiles?” Jax asks. 

Sam shrugs.

“Doesn’t matter. I figured it’d come out eventually.”

“Not like you could have just told me or anything,” Jax says drily. 

Sam looks him in the eye.

“Like you told them…” Sam’s nod encompasses the room at large, “…the reason we’re really here?”  
Jax makes a face, rubs at the back of his neck.

“Yeah, well don’t remind me. I don’t like lying to them.”

He waits a beat or two, then continues.

“About that…are you sure about this…thing? I mean, nothing’s happened, and I can’t sell this weapons dealer angle forever, so…”

The truth is, Sam’s not so sure anymore himself. He’s never gone this long without a vision actually materializing before. The possibility that they finally got there ahead of the carnage for once seems too good to be true. On the other hand, maybe the demon or the visions or whatever are just fucking with him, because Jax looks at him with more skepticism with each passing hour. Sam can’t really blame him. 

“I wish I knew, man. Most of the time we don’t even…” Sam pauses, shaking his head. “They usually come true a lot quicker than this, yeah, but I’m not quite ready to call the all-clear yet.”

Jax nods.

“All right. I’m thinking tomorrow we take some of the guys and go out to the shooting range. It’s a good way to let off steam, and it’ll give you and Dean something to do besides hang around the clubhouse. Plus, it plays into the ‘arms dealer’ story,” Jax adds quietly.

“Okay, sure,” Sam says. “Dean’ll like that. Just don’t bring any RPGs along, okay? Dean’s kinda obsessed.”

Jax chuckles.

“Hey, who doesn’t love a good explosion?”

“Fine,” Sam says, grinning and showing Jax his palms. “Just don’t blame me if my brother blows up half the county.”

Jax laughs and gets up, claps Sam on the shoulder.

“I’ll go set it up,” he says and walks over to talk to an older guy near the pool table.

**

They don’t drag themselves out to the range until late morning, but since it’s just the back end of a canyon a few miles out of Charming anyway, Sam figures the hour doesn’t really matter. The clock may be ticking on the vision front, but it’s not like they’re on a schedule. They’re just waiting for something to happen. Not surprisingly, the suspense isn’t doing much for Sam’s outlook and he isn’t particularly looking forward to this excursion.

Dean, on the other hand, is annoyingly cheerful, especially considering the fight the night before. He’s got a nasty bruise on one cheekbone, a little patch of skin scraped off the point of his chin, and Sam knows he has to be sore in plenty of other places, too, but it doesn’t seem to be affecting his mood. He’s joking with the others, playing the gun dealer to the hilt during the trip to the range, which they make in a panel van—Tig driving and Bobby in the passenger seat, Jax, Sam, Dean, and JoJo and a couple of other prospects in the back. 

Sam’s trying to work out what each one’s role is here, exactly. Tig is probably there to be Clay’s eyes, and Juice has been following Dean around like an overeager puppy whenever possible. The reason for Bobby’s presence is a little less obvious, but they are ostensibly here to do business with the MC so maybe it’s got something to do with that. The prospects are there to do the heavy lifting and other dirty work, as far as Sam can tell.

“So, you’re looking for the full-auto stuff, mostly,” Jax says, handing Dean a military rifle.

They’ve established no such thing, hadn’t really even talked about it, actually. On the other hand, Jax didn’t phrase it as a question, and Dean just rolls with it anyway.

“AK-47, the very best there is. When you absolutely, positively, got to kill every motherfucker in the room; accept no substitutes,” Dean says, patting the rifle’s stock fondly.

“It’s way too early in the day for you to be quoting _’Jackie Brown’_ , Dean,” Sam says, with a healthy dose of weary disgust.

“It’s half past eleven, Sammy,” Dean says, not taking his attention off the firearm in his hands as he checks the controls, the construction of the piece. Their reason for being out here might be fake, but Sam knows this part isn’t. Dean really does appreciate good weaponry, and it’s not often that they have access to fully automatic firepower.

“My point stands,” Sam says.

Dean ignores him, raises the gun to his shoulder and flips the selector switch to semi-automatic with the side of his right thumb. He aims for exactly two seconds, then squeezes the trigger, firing ten shots at the targets they’ve set up across the small clearing. 

“Smooth,” Dean allows, nodding as he lowers the gun. They’re less than a hundred yards from the target, and Sam can see from here that all ten rounds have entered it pretty near the center. Sam was expecting as much, of course, even though AKs aren’t particularly known for their accuracy, and it’s a good enough showing that the group seems impressed.

There’s a lot more shooting and bragging and posturing after that, but it’s hot and Sam is getting thirsty, plus they accomplished everything they really needed to with Dean’s first volley, and Sam is so over the whole thing after about the first hour. 

He wanders to the edge of the clearing, winds up slouching against the trunk of a tree that offers enough shade to be of some relief from the heat, and idly watches the men milling around the clearing, laughing and enjoying themselves. Sam didn’t sleep well the night before and he thinks about catching a quick nap, but something about this is bothering him, like an irritating itch he can’t reach. Something is off, but he can’t quite put a finger on what it is.

Finally he notices that JoJo is watching Dean a little too closely, especially for a lowly prospect who really has little stake in the outcome of this deal. 

Sam is studying JoJo in turn, trying to figure out what’s up, when Jax gestures for them to load up.

“Let’s go. Connie’s got enchiladas back at the hacienda and she’ll kick my ass if we let ‘em get cold.”

Sam levers himself up from the ground and shambles over to the van.

“Spanish theme today, huh?” he says to Jax.

Jax nods.

“You bet. The _chile_ is hot and the _cerveza_ is cold, my friend.”

“Sounds like an offer I can’t refuse,” Sam says.

They pile back into the van and head back toward the Samcro compound. Sam keeps half an eye on JoJo, but he can’t pinpoint what it is about him that’s making his skin crawl, if it’s even him at all. 

Sam shakes his head. He’s being paranoid. It’s probably just the air conditioning. 

**

The scene at the clubhouse that night is a pretty close match to the one the night before, and Sam wonders how many of these evenings they’re going to spend here, doing little and accomplishing less. 

Which causes Sam’s thoughts to return to the vision problem again, like he’s been doing about every five seconds since he first saw it. And it’s not like that’s not true every time he sees someone die before it happens—it’s so fucked up that he’s getting used to the visions to the point that he has some sort of normal frame of reference—but the time delay switch on this one is really throwing him.

Even Dean’s starting to question him and he’s seen the visions come true in living color, more than once. Sam’s a little surprised Dean’s not agitating for them to leave Charming, actually, trying to convince Sam to consider that maybe the danger to Jax has passed. Dean always gets twitchy when they stay in one place for more than a few days.

But Dean has settled in here surprisingly comfortably, to all appearances, and he doesn’t seem in much of a hurry to leave, now that Sam thinks about it. He’s not sure what to make of that.

Sam downs the rest of his beer, exhaling on a loud sigh at the end of the swallow. He gets up from his chair and stretches, then ambles over to the bar. Dean is leaning against it, half on eye on Candy, the “sweet butt” who’s been the most persistent in trying to get his attention. She’s actually one of the better looking of the girls Sam has seen around, at least in his opinion, but he hasn’t noticed Dean doing much about it.

“Dude. You realize there’s an available woman—like really, really available—within arm’s reach,” Sam says conversationally as he slouches backward next to Dean, elbows propped on the bar.

Dean darts a glance at Candy, who winks at him, leaning further forward to the point where her double Ds—at least, Sam’s thinking—are seriously in danger of spilling out of the front of her low cut t-shirt. Dean makes a half shrug. 

“Eh, I don’t know…just not that interested, I guess.”

Sam raises one eyebrow.

“What?” Dean frowns. “Shut up.”

Sam shows him his palms.

“I didn’t say anything,” he says, but he’s grinning, on the verge of laughing. 

Dean huffs. “It’s just…it’s not…” 

“No challenge? No thrill of the chase?” Sam suggests helpfully.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Shut up,” he says turning back to his beer.

The petite brunette who’s been behind the bar every evening since they’ve been here walks over to their vicinity and raises her eyebrows at Sam.

“Get you anything, big guy?” she asks, smiling up at him.

She’s maybe thirty years old, give or take, and she’s wearing a tight black tank top that clings to every generous curve. Her dark bangs sweep low above eyes of a brilliant blue, clear even in the dim light, and she’s definitely good-looking. Sam’s noticed and he’s a hundred percent sure that Dean has, especially when his brother turns his biggest, flirtiest grin in her direction.

“Hey, sweetheart…have you met my brother Sam?” Dean asks.

She smiles up at Sam.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says, grinning back.

“For?”

“Whatever crap my brother here has already unloaded on you. He’s always been a problem child. I can’t take him anywhere,” Sam says, mock ruefully. 

“Ha, yeah, my brother,” Dean says, waving a dismissive hand and leaning closer to the woman, his tone mock-confidential. “He had his sense of humor amputated in a tragic chainsaw accident. Just play along.”

“This from the guy who thinks _Caddyshack_ is the greatest movie of all time.”

“Hey—that gopher is a comic genius. Seriously Sam, this is Connie. She’s gonna marry me and we’re gonna make a lot of really good-looking babies; she just doesn’t know it yet.”

Connie laughs.

“Hey, Sam. It’s nice to meet you. Dean’s been trying to convince me to run away with him since you boys showed up. I keep telling him you can’t teach an old biker chick new tricks.”

“I kind of doubt that,” Sam says with a smile. “So, Connie…is that short for Constance?”

Connie leans forward and beckons them closer, like she’s about to impart top secret intel. 

“Short for Contessa,” she says, laughing again. “I guess my mom thought it sounded classy, or ladylike, or something.” 

She holds up both forearms, one of which is covered with a half-sleeve of tattoos and the other one looks to be on its way to getting there. 

“Guess I showed her, huh?” she says, grinning and winking before she turns and bellows a response to a biker’s demand for attention. “Keep your pants on, Tig! Nobody wants to see that. God only knows what’s crawled in there and died!” 

Sam turns back to Dean during the loud laughter that follows.

“Now her…” Dean says, nodding toward Connie’s retreating back, “…she’d be worth the chase.”

Sam smirks. 

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I saw her coming out of the back room with one of the other girls. They looked kind of…satisfied. Afterglow-y.”

“You’re making that up,” Dean says. “And I don’t just mean the word at the end,” he adds.

“Nope. It was the blonde one with the eyebrow ring…Lucy, I think? Whatever, she’s a lot prettier than you, Dean.”

Dean just rolls his eyes.

“The fact that you somehow think that makes me less interested in Connie says a lot more about you than it does about me, Sammy,” Dean replies and Sam doesn’t miss the way Dean’s glance flicks to Jax for just a second.

“Is there something you’re trying to say?”

Dean smirks.

“Nah, not a thing. To each his own, dude. Just seems like you two are spending a lot of time together, that’s all.”

“Thought that’s why we were here,” Sam says, giving him a sideways glance. 

Sam doesn’t have a chance to hear what Dean would have said to that because he’s approached on his other side by one of the Sons, a big guy, almost as tall as Sam, with a shaved head and a crooked nose. Sam gives him a faint nod of acknowledgment and the guy glares back at him.

Sam can’t recall if they’ve been properly introduced or not, but from the ugly sneer on the guy’s face, Sam has a feeling they’re about to get to know each other a little better whether he likes it or not. 

Sam glances over at Jax, sees that he’s watching the situation, but not with any evident intention to intervene. He’s pretty obviously interested in seeing what Sam will do. 

Veteran of schoolyard skirmishes with a hundred bullies and more barroom brawls than he can remember, Sam knows instinctively when he can talk his way out and when beating the shit out of some asshole who’s asking for it is the only thing to do, and Sam can already tell. The only way out of this one is through.

Sam sighs and turns his attention to the biker. Might as well get this over with right now. 

“Nice place,” Sam comments. “Come here often?”

The biker narrows his eyes.

“You know, I see your lips movin’, but all I hear is ‘suck, suck, suck’,” he says. “Cocksucker,” he adds, just in case he didn’t get the message, Sam supposes.

Dean shifts beside him, but Sam makes a small hand gesture, _I got this_ , and Dean subsides, mostly relaxed but alert and ready.

Sam chuckles. 

“The homophobic prick angle. It’s a classic,” Sam says, nodding. Then he turns his back like he’s done, but he knows they aren’t. He’s ready.

The biker’s snarl and the heavy hand he lays on Sam’s shoulder are completely expected and Sam reacts quickly, jamming his elbow into the guy’s ample gut. The air goes out of him with a grunt and Sam whirls, crouched and ready. The big man recovers quicker than Sam expects and grazes an uppercut off the point of Sam’s jaw, sending Sam reeling backward a few steps. 

Sam is dimly aware of Dean’s reassuring presence off his right shoulder as they circle. Even so, he wants to end this quickly because they’re obviously way outnumbered, and just because Dean has established his position in the pecking order around here doesn’t mean that this can’t turn ugly.

The biker takes another swing and Sam turns, takes the blow against his left shoulder instead. He counters with a left hook that makes solid contact with the other man’s temple. He staggers back, then recovers and charges Sam. Sam twists away, but they’re too close for a kick and Sam finishes the swivel by bringing his knee up sharply into the vicinity of the guy’s groin. He makes solid enough contact that his opponent wheezes, but he doesn’t go down so Sam knows he didn’t quite hit the target he was aiming for.

Sam dimly hears Clay bellowing, “Take it outside!” and then somebody grabs Sam from behind. Sam almost has whoever it is thrown over his shoulder and onto the floor before he realizes it’s Dean. A couple of the bikers are restraining their guy, too, and Sam relaxes, waiting to catch his breath.

“Okay, boys, that’s enough fun for tonight. Stack, you head on home before Josie comes down here to drag you home by the hair,” Jax says, addressing the biker, to general laughter.

Sam straightens up, wondering if there are going to be repercussions, but Jax doesn’t seem in the least put out by the disturbance, more amused than anything, so Sam figures maybe fighting is just a part of the expected nightly entertainment. Their audience seems to be making preparations to leave anyway, murmuring goodbyes and back-slapping, wandering toward the door like the fight was some sort of signal that the party is over or something. 

Jax slaps Sam on the shoulder, quirks an eyebrow at Dean, who’s still hovering over Sam, like the overprotective ass he is. 

“You boys better call it a night, too, get your beauty sleep,” Jax says, eyeing Sam’s face. “You need it.”

**

When Sam comes out of the bathroom, very minor cuts and bruises inspected and dismissed, Jax is on the other end of the hall, talking with one of the Sons—his name is Hub or something like that—Sam can’t remember for sure. When Jax finishes, the other guy nods and strides off like a soldier on his way to carry out his orders, which Sam guesses is probably pretty close to the truth. 

Sam watches Jax give his father’s Harley a sideways glance as he passes its glass display case, something he’s seen Jax do habitually. It’s like an unconscious salute, or maybe a prayer. Jax obviously sees Sam despite the relative darkness of the hallway between them, but he doesn’t speak. 

Jax opens the door to his room then pauses, looking directly at Sam for a perceptibly too-long moment. Sam cants his head, a question, and Jax just eyes him steadily for another beat, then steps inside the room. He doesn’t close the door behind him.

Sam blinks. He’s never played this game all that much, especially not with guys, but he’s pretty sure that was some sort of invitation. The little thrill that stirs low in his belly is proof enough that he wants to take Jax up on the offer. The fact that Dean will likely give him shit over it if and when he finds out is the least of the reasons Sam has for thinking it’s a bad idea.

Then the thought occurs to him that he’s actually here to watch the guy’s back anyway, and that’s all it takes to start his feet moving toward the glow of lamplight emanating from the open door.

Jax is standing beside his bed pawing through a pile of clothing, shirtless, with his back to the door. 

And what a truly fucking magnificent back it is. 

What they’d had together the last time Sam was here had been quick and dirty and Sam hadn’t really gotten this kind of view of the man, of Jax’ Reaper tattoo glaring dark from between the wings of his shoulder blades.

Jax stills as Sam approaches, but he doesn’t turn. It’s the most natural thing in the world for Sam to reach out and touch, run his fingertips over the smooth skin, watch the gooseflesh ripple across the path his hand takes down Jax’ spine. 

Sam can feel it against his palm when Jax softly rumbles, “Shut the door.”

Sam reaches behind him with his free hand, unwilling to put too much distance between them, feeling weirdly like breaking the contact of his fingers with Jax’ skin will throw everything off somehow, sever some sort of deeper connection between them. Or maybe bring him to his senses. _Fuck it,_ he thinks, he’s tired of being the sensible one all the time anyway. 

When the door clicks softly closed, Sam steps near enough to feel the heat of Jax’ body against his chest and slides his hands around Jax’ middle, buries his face in the curve of Jax’ neck, inhaling deeply of his smoke and whiskey scent. 

A wave of memory sweeps over Sam of the last time they were here, almost a year ago now. Jess was still a big presence in his mind then, especially when he thought about physical intimacy of any sort, and now Madison is dead too, dead by Sam’s own hand, whether or not it was his fault. 

But they’re gone, and Jax is substantial and real and his complete lack of fragility is comforting somehow, easing a knot of tension that Sam hadn’t even realized he was holding inside him. He sighs a deep breath against Jax’ shoulder.

Jax shivers and makes a soft noise, barely a moan, more like his breath just got caught in his throat for a second before escaping. Sam curls around him then, pressing in and opening his mouth against the slightly sweaty skin of his neck, sucking lightly, feeling the beat of his pulse under his tongue. Jax reaches up and grasps a handful of Sam’s hair, combing his fingers through it before he pulls hard enough to make Sam moan and roll his hips, bending his knees a little in order to rub his hard dick against the curve of Jax’ ass. Jax growls and presses back, and dry spell or no, Sam can read that signal just fine. 

He shoves his hand inside the loose waistband of Jax’ jeans to palm his cock, hot and full under the thin cotton of his underwear. Sam makes a couple of hard passes over it with the heel of his hand just to feel it jerk, to hear Jax’ breathing hitch, before he uses both hands to unfasten Jax’ jeans and let them slide down, slips his underwear down over his hips to follow the jeans to the floor. 

Jax quickly steps out of the clothing puddled at his feet and turns in Sam’s arms, pulls Sam down with both hands for a deep, dirty kiss before Sam can even completely process what he’s doing. The expanse of naked skin under Sam’s fingers draws them in like a magnet to iron, and he smooths his palms over Jax’ shoulders, down his back and then down again further to cup his ass, squeezing the muscular curve and dipping even further to tease behind his balls. 

Jax hasn’t stopped kissing him, or even let up, and he groans into the kiss while Sam’s hands wander, sucking at Sam’s tongue and trying to work a hand up under Sam’s shirts. 

After a minute or two, Jax grunts and pulls back, his teasing smirk belied by the wild look in his eyes.

“You know, you’re in California now. You don’t gotta wear so many goddamned layers.”

Sam snorts and grins back, quickly shedding his button-down and reaching both hands up and behind him to pulls his t-shirt off over his head. Jax watches Sam finish undressing himself, eyes going hooded with lust.

“Yeah,” he breathes, easing himself back onto the bed and scooting backward, leaning against the headboard with his knees bent and spread slightly.

And this is not something that Sam has done that often, but Jax’ dick is hard and leaking against his belly and Sam wants it. He crawls across the bed toward Jax, watching him from under the fringe of his bangs as he leans down to lick the head of his cock, salty fluid at the tip making Sam’s mouth water for more. 

Jax drops his head back onto the pillow and moans outright. Sam licks again, wants to feel the heavy weight of him in his mouth, down his throat, but he takes his time at first, swirling the flat of his tongue across the top, making teasing sucks around the head. A long sweep up from the base and back down has Jax panting and cursing and Sam notices he has a double handful of the bedding clenched tightly in his fists in his efforts to keep still. 

Sam pulls back, smiling slightly before he takes Jax back into his mouth, sliding his lips down the shaft. His gag reflex kicks in before he can get it all the way in, and that’s somehow hot all on its own. 

But it’s not as hot as the expression on Jax’ face, the way he’s looking down at Sam as he pants open-mouthed, then lets go of one handful of bedsheet to thread his fingers into Sam’s hair. 

Sam glances up at that, and maybe it’s the angle, or the vulnerable look on Jax’ face, but something brings back the vision in a vivid Technicolor flash of blood and pain. Sam falters and pulls away, sits back on his haunches, breathing heavily and closing his eyes while he waits for his mind to resituate itself. 

When he opens his eyes Jax is reaching for his arm to pull him down and that simple gesture makes something squeeze tight in Sam’s chest, makes him ache with wanting, and something deeper that he doesn’t really want to name. He masks it by surging up over Jax, taking his mouth with a demanding kiss. Jax opens to it easily, pulling Sam down on top of him, and the welcoming acceptance of the action makes Sam crazy, forces a noise from him that sounds an awful lot like a whimper as he grinds his dick against Jax’ muscular thigh. 

Jax curls one leg around the back of Sam’s and runs both hands down Sam’s back, cupping his ass and pulling them flush together.

“Oh fuck,” Jax groans. “Your ass, God, feels so good, been wanting to feel it in my hands since you got here…shit…”

Sam moans in response, rolling his hips hard into the sweet friction, losing himself in the sensual slide of skin on skin and the building need to come, panting and sweating, and kind of just…wallowing in it all, the no-holds-barred intensity of the contact between them. It’s gritty and rough, Sam biting at Jax’ neck, his collarbone, eager to draw every delicious noise out of the man under him that he can. 

Jax bucks against him, claws at Sam’s shoulders and bites back, grunting and swearing, and Sam’s orgasm bursts over him in a wave of release and forgetting so sweet he feels grateful tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. All he can think is, , and _I needed that_ , as he rides it out, thrusting against Jax’ belly, slick with his own spend. 

Sam finally rolls to the side and onto his back, completely relaxed and arms spread, legs open, inviting Jax with his body to do whatever he wants. Jax rolls on top of Sam, growling filth against Sam’s shoulder and grinding down against his hip to his own release, before flopping down beside Sam, still breathing hard.

Sam lies with his eyes closed, enjoying the pleasant buzz of relief and satisfaction humming under his skin, wanting to forestall his re-entry into the stress zone, the meat grinder that’s been his life for the last two years. 

Jax stirs, yawning and stretching before he settles back down.

“So,” he drawls, “…how long are you gonna keep up this knight-on-a-white-horse act? In case you haven’t noticed, I ain’t no princess.”

Sam isn’t fooled by his lazy tone. He hasn’t missed the rising tension in the clubhouse, or Clay’s constant glowering at them. Samcro wants the Winchester brothers out of its happy little home. They don’t belong here.

“Princess? Nah, I’d say more like Goldilocks,” Sam says, reaching over to ruffle Jax’ hair. 

“Fuck you,” Jax says, swiping at Sam’s hand without energy, like he’s shooing away an annoying insect. Sam’s hand lands on the curve Jax’ shoulder and Jax lets it stay. Sam rubs his thumb lightly across the smooth skin.

“How long?” Jax repeats.

Sam sighs.

“As long as it takes.”

**

Dean leans against the door jamb of their room and folds his arms, shakes his head at the closing door of Jax’ bedroom. He was afraid of this. Sam always manages to get attached somehow, has never learned how to love ‘em and leave ‘em like Dean does. In another life maybe Dean would envy him that, but it’s not an asset when you’re a hunter.

He’s not homophobic or insecure or whatever, no matter what Sam thinks. Dean’s been hit on by males plenty of times, and he’s an experimental guy when it comes to sex, so. It’s just weird to think of Sam having a…whatever Jax is to him—the word “boyfriend” makes Dean want to laugh and vomit in about equal measure—but it’s clear that Sam and Jax have some sort of connection, one that Dean is realistic enough to realize is deeper than just the physical. 

And Dean guesses he can see a certain amount of sense in it. An awful lot of the women Sam has slept with haven’t fared so well. Maybe it makes sense for Sam to hook up with someone a little…sturdier. Or he can understand how Sam might feel safer that way, even if none of the bad shit that’s happened was Sam’s fault. 

Dean sighs and pads back toward his bed, thinks about at least pretending to sleep in case Sam comes back. God forbid his brother catch him watching the door, waiting up for him.

Then the thought occurs to him that probably Sam’s vision has less chance of coming true with Sam literally and bodily on top of the guy…and _oh, Jesus_. That’s one image too far for Dean’s mental health.

He needs some air.

**

Sam sits straight up in the bed. He must make some kind of noise because Jax is up too, has a hand on Sam’s shoulder, and he’s saying something. Sam can’t make it out over the roaring in his ears. 

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep here, but he’d been too relaxed, too relieved. He had let his guard down, always a mistake, and now…

“Dean,” Sam says, the name coming out a lot weaker than he expects. 

“What’s wrong?” Jax says, voice rough with sleep. “Did you have a bad dream, kiddo?” he asks. 

Sam’s vision is clearing now and even in the dim light he can see the expression on the other man’s face. Jax is trying to joke, but he can tell something is really wrong. Sam’s got other worries right now, though.

Sam vaults off of the bed and runs down the hall to the dorm-style room where he and Dean have been sleeping, even though he already knows running won’t help. It’s too late; Sam’s screwed up.

Dean is gone.

**

Jax has been expecting a gathering of the council ever since Sam and Dean showed up, but not so much for this particular circumstance. They’ve been discussing Dean’s disappearance for a while now, but there’s not that much new to say; they’re just rehashing the same questions over and over. The situation was unexpected, but it is what it is and now they have to deal with it. 

Clay doesn’t seem like he’s all that sorry to have Dean gone, honestly, and although Jax has come to genuinely like the guy, he can’t deny that the situation is unusual, harboring two outsiders for such an extended period. The MC loves its traditions, thrives on custom, routine. It’s no accident that so many of Jax’ brothers are vets; they like the structure, the sense of order that the MC provides. Sam and Dean are threats to that order, irritants that Samcro chafes to expel like a splinter from a wound. 

But that isn’t the point, and they all know it.

Juice clears his throat, glances nervously at Jax before speaking.

“Might not be anything to do with us at all. These guys have enemies, right?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Clay says, exhaling a huge cloud of cigar smoke. 

“The point is, they had the balls, or the sheer stupidity, to come onto Club property—into the goddamned clubhouse compound—and kidnap somebody under our protection,” Jax says. “That can’t stand.”

He notes a few nods around the table. 

And this is where it gets tricky.

_”Another vision?” Jax had asked, when he’d gotten Sam calmed down enough to focus._

_“Yes…no…it’s the same, but…”_

_“You’re not making sense, man. How’d you know he was gone?”_

_Sam took a deep breath, wiped a shaking hand across his mouth._

_“I didn’t really, it was just…It was the same vision, the one I had of you, with the kidnapping, only…”_

_“I thought you said they were never wrong.”_

_“They’ve never been…I don’t know,” Sam said, looking around wildly. “It doesn’t matter, Dean’s gone and I’ve got to find him.”_

_Sam turned and strode back into the clubhouse. Jax followed him into their room, where Sam was throwing belongings indiscriminately into his bag._

_“Whoa, hold on,” Jax said. “Don’t go off half-cocked, man. Let’s figure this out. You don’t even know where to start looking.”_

_Sam stopped jamming clothing into his duffle and met Jax’ gaze._

_“That’s not completely true.”_

It hadn’t been easy, but Jax had finally gotten Sam to settle enough for him to call a meeting, try to regain some sort of control of the situation. In the meantime, he had set Sam to remembering everything he could about what he’d seen in the vision—a grove of trees, a condemned building—maybe drawing some sketches or something. And that had led them here. 

“The question is where do we go from here?” Bobby says.

Which is what Jax was expecting, if not looking forward to. Jax can’t see trying to explain all the mystical bullshit that started this whole fucked up situation. He rubs a hand across his mouth and takes a deep breath, like that will somehow make it easier for him get through another round of lying to his closest friends, his brothers.

“To Lodi. The Hermanos have him,” Jax says.

Clay has already heard this part, but the rest gathered around the table stir in various expressions of disbelief. 

“Hermanos? Those little goat-fuckers…” Tig mutters.

But as usual, it’s Bobby who gets right to the point.

“What? They know better than to mess with Samcro. What in hell possessed the Brothers of Justice to poke the bear?”

Jax tries not to wince too obviously at the unwittingly apt verb.

“I don’t know man,” Jax says, shaking his head. “They gotta know it’s suicidal.”

Clay shifts in his chair and raises his voice slightly, demanding the attention of the table.

“Enough. We have to remedy the situation, regardless,” he says. “We’ll get the kid back, then beat the reason out of the Hermanos de Justicia at our leisure.”

**

They have their bikes packed and ready to go in under two hours. Jax considered taking a van or a truck or something, but Clay wants to make a statement by taking a large force, in full club regalia. They’re all more comfortable on their Harleys anyway, more mobile, and this way they can go in light and fast. 

Jax would really feel better about having only his trusted brothers along on this one—he can mostly predict what they’ll do in a given situation—but of course Sam is going with them. Jax doubts there’s any way to stop him from it anyway, but it turns out that Sam knows how to ride, just needs a quick refresher on Jax’ old Super Glide and he’s ready to roll. 

They roar out of the yard in the midmorning sun, Jax letting the rest go out ahead so he can keep an eye on Sam. They’ve put him at the back of the pack so he can just concentrate on keeping himself on the road without having to worry about other bikes so much.

As fucked up as all of this is, the bad feeling Jax has in the pit of his stomach is lessened somewhat by the wind across his shoulders and the rumble of his bike under him. It’s always like this, nothing like riding the open road to clear his head.

Jax watches Sam closely as they ride, but he seems to be doing okay. He’s a little bit stiff, but that’s to be expected from a guy who spends most of his life in the passenger seat. That Impala may be a sweet old girl, but it’s still a cage, and Sam’ll loosen up as he gets more comfortable with the ride. 

It’s not a long one, either—only about an hour or so—so Jax is surprised when Sam slows and pulls over carefully to the side of the road. Jax turns around and heads back to see what the problem is, but before he can get there Sam is already leaned over with his hands on his knees. 

By the time Jax is off his bike and helmet tossed onto the seat, Sam is down, kneeling in the tough grass of the right-of-way, holding his head in his hands like he’s trying to keep it attached to his body.

“Sam! Hey…what’s up, man?”

But Sam doesn’t answer, can’t answer, maybe, and what is Jax supposed to do now? Call 911? 

_Shit._

Sam is panting and almost sobbing, muttering _no, no, no_ under his breath, and it’s pretty clear that he’s having one of his visions, but Jax has no idea how to help him. He reaches out, then pulls back, thinking maybe he shouldn’t touch the man when he’s like this. 

Jax’ cell rings. _Juice._ He can see the rest of the crew pulled over about a mile ahead, waiting. 

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Not sure,” Jax says shortly, stepping away from Sam but keeping him in his line of vision. He seems to have eased a little but looks far from okay. 

“Sam’s…sick,” Jax continues. “He can’t ride. I’ll call the garage to send a truck. You guys go on ahead to the motel and we’ll meet you there.”

“Okay,” Juice says affably and hangs up.

Jax starts over to check on Sam, but turns his head in disgust when Sam retches again. He doesn’t bring up much, wouldn’t eat anything before they left, but Jax’ stomach still turns over sympathetically. 

When the miserable sound effects quiet some, Jax walks over to his pack and pulls out a bottle of water, holds it out to Sam wordlessly.

Sam wipes his mouth on his sleeve and takes it, rinses and spits, then takes a cautious sip. When he turns his face up toward Jax, he looks sick, miserable and desperate.

“You alright?” Jax asks, even though the answer is obviously a whole mountain of ‘no.’

“I’ll live,” Sam says hoarsely and struggles to his feet. He squeezes his eyes shut and swallows hard, like he’s trying to stave off another round of vomiting, then looks at Jax.

“Vision?” 

“Yeah,” Sam answers, and it’s pretty clear there was nothing good about it, but they need to know.

“Anything new?”

Sam bites his lip. He looks pretty pathetic and Jax isn’t entirely sure that the guy isn’t going to bust out crying right here on the side of the road, and won’t that be awesome.

“Not really. They’re…escalating,” Sam says. “We have to hurry,” he adds, then turns and bends over to right the Harley, which didn’t quite make it onto its stand, went down in the barrow ditch right before Sam did. 

Sam tries to pick it up using just his forearms, then crouches down to put his shoulder into it when that doesn’t work. Jax just folds his arms and watches until Sam starts to look pissed, gives a loud grunt and a mighty heave and manages to get it standing again.

“Thanks for the help, man,” Sam says irritably.

“Whatever,” Jax says. “You let it go down, you get it back up.”

When Sam makes to climb back on the bike, Jax steps forward and puts a restraining hand on his wrist.

“Forget it. I called a truck.”

“No, we don’t have time for that, Jax…I can ride.”

“The hell you can. Are the visions always like that?” Jax asks.

Sam has the grace to look a little sheepish.

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“Tell me. Tell me what it’s like,” Jax says, his voice unyielding.

Sam takes a deep breath.

“Well, they usually start with flashes, images that sort of strobe in and out. My head starts to feel like it’s going to explode, and then…well, I don’t always puke, but I always want to. And then the vision passes and I’m okay.”

“Yeah, you look great,” Jax says flatly. He’s pissed now.

“Look, can we just go? Dean is…”

“No, _you_ look,” Jax spits through gritted teeth. “What were you thinking? You let me put you on a Harley when you _knew_ this could happen at any time? You could have killed yourself, you asshole! Or somebody else, with your lying bullshit. Christ, I should have known…”

“I was _thinking_ that I needed to get my brother back! I was thinking I’d like to have Dean back in one piece, that’s what I was goddamned _thinking_ , Jax!” Sam shouts, grabbing Jax by the shirt and getting up in his face.

Jax clenches his jaw and looks pointedly down at Sam’s hand, where it’s balled up in the front of Jax’ t-shirt. Sam opens his hand, but he does it slowly and with obvious effort. 

It’s not that Jax doesn’t sympathize with the guy; he does. If he didn’t, Jax would be in the middle of administering a beat-down right now just for the shirt-grabbing stunt, Sam’s unnatural size be damned.

Jax draws in a calming breath.

“You’re not gonna be much good at getting Dean back if your brains are splattered all over Highway 99,” he growls.

Sam lets his head fall back, eyes closed, then exhales gustily.

“But I didn’t. I got off in time…I’m fine, nobody got hurt,” Sam insists, but Jax just stares him down until he subsides, folding his arms and accepting Jax’ word on the matter, even if he doesn’t look happy about it. 

The wait for the truck isn’t a particularly pleasant one.

**

When they get to the motel, Hub already has them all checked in and sorted out. He’s relatively new to Samcro and he’s not much of a fighter if he can help it, but he’s good at organizing people and dealing with details, which is why Jax brought him. The twenty or so others are milling around the front of the building, restless and ready for action and making the desk clerk extremely nervous. 

Jax shoves a room key into Sam’s hand and points him to a door, then goes to give Tig his marching orders. Sam gets out of the truck, but Jax notices he doesn’t go on into the room, just stands at the door watching Jax and the others with his brows furrowed even though he looks like he’s about ready to collapse, the stubborn asshole.

Sam looks even more pissed when all the bikers, except for Hub and Jax, roar off down the road, splitting off into smaller groups as they get further from the motel.

Jax takes Sam by the shoulder and steers him inside, waiting until the door shuts behind them before he speaks.

“I know you want to go running off after your brother. Believe me, I get it. But you don’t even know where to start looking.”

“But…”

“I know, man,” Jax soothes, holding Sam by both biceps now, looking him in the eye. “Let my boys work, figure out where they have Dean and what’s going on. They know what they’re doing. You and I will be in on it when it all goes down, trust me.”

Sam finally sighs and nods, closing his eyes.

“Sit down, come on, before you fall down. You look like lukewarm shit,” Jax says, leading him over to the nearest bed and coaxing him to sit, gently at first and then with increasing insistence. 

“Thanks,” Sam mutters, but finally collapses onto the bed and then lies down, forearm thrown across his face like he’s trying to block out the dim lamplight.

Jax just stands there for a minute, not sure what to do with himself. He figures it’ll be at least a few hours before they hear anything useful, and he didn’t get much sleep last night either. He takes his cut off and lays it over the desk chair, pulls off his boots, then notices Sam’s.

He’s not exactly used to taking care of sick people, especially not grown-ass, oversized men, but there’s not much for him to do until the boys send some sort of word. He finally goes into the bathroom and wets a washcloth, tosses it onto Sam’s face. Sam jerks and mutters _asshole_ , but he takes it and uses it to wipe his face, then turns it over and lays it across his eyes, sighing. Jax unlaces each of Sam’s boots and tugs them off in turn, letting them fall onto the floor. 

Unable to think of anything else to do, Jax slouches down into one of the upholstered chairs and leans back, closing his eyes. He’s starting to doze off when Sam mutters something that sounds like “sorry.”

“For what?” Jax rasps sleepily, and the way Sam stirs at his voice makes Jax think Sam had been out of it too, was talking in his sleep when he said it, but Sam answers. Even if it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.

“What am I not sorry for?” Sam says, snorting softly. “It’s pretty much all my fault.”

“How is this your fault?” Jax asks, choosing to focus on the present instead of whatever presumably heavy baggage Sam is talking about. 

“Stupid visions…they’re never wrong, I told Dean that, dragged his ass out here, and this is what happens, they’re…” Sam’s breath hitches painfully at that point. “…hurting him…right the fuck now, and I’m sitting here, being useless…” 

Sam sits up and flings the washcloth to the side, threads his fingers up into his hair, clutching at it. 

Jax will never, ever tell anyone else about this, will deny to the death the protective instinct that makes him get up and go to Sam, put an arm around his shoulders and squeeze, try to talk him down.

“Hey, hey…you didn’t do this, you didn’t ask for it, right? This psychic…whatever? You’re not doing it on purpose.”

“God, no,” Sam says, shoulders slumping under Jax’ stroking palm. 

“Okay. Lay the fuck down then, get some rest, so you’ll be of some use to your brother when we find him,” Jax says, squeezing the back of Sam’s neck with one hand.

Sam sighs, shakes his head in denial, but he does it, folds heavily to the bed and stretches out on his stomach, hands folded underneath his face and elbows sticking out, like a child. 

His breathing has just begun to even out a little when Jax’ phone rings.

**

They’re fully dressed and in the truck inside of five minutes. 

“Old place up on Cherokee,” Jax says in answer to a question Sam hasn’t asked, and Sam probably has no idea what he’s talking about anyway. Jax needs to get a grip. He takes a breath.

“You were right. From what Juice told me, the place matches your description exactly.” 

Sam just turns his face to the window, doesn’t say anything at all.

Jax drives to the small park about a block away from the house, where Hub has set up a staging area. He doesn’t miss the strange looks the bikers are giving Sam as they step out of the truck.

“What?” Jax asks the group at large, then focuses on Tig.

“We’ve got a little…situation,” Tig says quietly, moving up close to Jax to speak, darting odd glances at Sam. Sam frowns.

“What’s going on?” Sam demands. “Have you seen Dean?”

Jax holds up a hand and Sam stops talking, face falling into a hard expression that makes him look ten years older and about a hundred times scarier. It reminds Jax that Sam isn’t exactly new to this kind of shit, is no stranger to violence.

Tig closes his eyes briefly, and Jax knows that he doesn’t want to hear this any more than Tig wants to tell it, but they need to know.

“We were just waiting for you two to get here and one of the prospects, Jojo, goes missing. Next thing I know, the guy is yelling at us—from _inside_ the fuckin’ house—sayin’ we gotta send in Sam Winchester.”

Tig holds his hands up in surrender at the shocked looks he gets from both Jax and Sam. 

“I know…I have no idea what…that’s everything, I swear to God. I don’t know what he’s doin’ or what they want.” He turns to Jax. “It’s up to you, boss. What next?”

“Gotta be a trap of some kind,” Jax says, partly to himself and partly to Sam. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Sam says, shaking his head. “I have to get in there eventually anyway.”

“Hold on a minute, Rambo,” Jax says to Sam, then turns to Tig. “Recon?”

“Looks like just three of them inside. We have the place surrounded and haven’t found any more. It’s kinda weird, in fact,” Tig says.

 _It’s weird, alright,_ Jax thinks. _A lot weirder than you can imagine._ He turns to Sam.

“He’s your brother, dude. How do you want to play this?”

**

The house is old and in bad shape, graffiti spattering the walls, and eaves and window trim hanging loose everywhere. Sam opens the door of the sad old shack and walks through, tries and fails to shut it behind him when the bottom hinge gives way. He lets it fall where it is and steps over the threshold, hands raised in a placating gesture. As soon as he’s past the doorjamb, a short Hispanic guy in a biker’s cut and holding a .45 in one hand grabs Sam’s bicep with the other and jerks. Sam stumbles a bit, but it’s as much for effect as anything. He doesn’t want to seem threatening at this point. 

Sam sees Dean immediately, tied to a chair, shirtless and bloody, one eye swollen completely shut, just like Sam had seen in the visions, first with Jax and then later replaced by Dean. He seems to be unconscious, slumped sideways against the ropes around his chest. Sam keeps his hands up, trying not to think about how Dean looks, young and fragile with all the blood he can see painting Dean’s bare torso, the cuts and bruises standing out harsh against his bare, pale skin.

“You’ve got me here now…you can let Dean go,” Sam says.

JoJo—or whatever is possessing him—laughs ugly. 

There are three of them altogether—JoJo, the one who escorted Sam in, and another, taller guy standing guard with a rifle on Sam’s opposite side. Sam could probably take them all by himself if they were human, but all three are watching him with eyes stained a shiny beetle black.

“Now, Sammy, you know better than that. Dean doesn’t matter, never has, he’s just the bait I used to get to you,” the thing sneers. “And it was _so_ easy.”

“Okay,” Sam says carefully, comforted by the sweet background music of Dean’s obvious breathing, the harsh rasp of air as it passes through his constricted airway. “You’ve got me here. I’m all yours. What do you want?” he finishes, spreading his arms in a “here I am” gesture.

“Oh, you don’t have to do anything,” the demon purrs, walking around behind Dean. He pulls out a wicked looking knife and brandishes it near Dean’s throat. Sam swallows hard, trying to stay calm, but he’s starting to see where this is going, the way they’ve been leading him by the nose this whole time.

“I’m gonna do it all for you, Sammy,” the JoJo thing says. “Rid you of this albatross,” it says, drawing the tip of the knife across Dean’s collarbone, “so you can get on with the business at hand.”

“And what’s that?” Sam says, trying to keep his voice from shaking as he looks wildly around for some way, anything that will save Dean from this senseless death.

“Our master’s plan, of course,” the demon says, slithering around behind Dean. It puts both hands on Dean’s shoulders in an obscene parody of affection and leers at Sam.

Sam’s just trying to keep it talking now.

“Oh yeah, who’s your boss?”

“Oh, you’ve met him. I think he was wearing your father at the time.”

“Yellow Eyes,” Sam whispers, despite himself.

“Some folks call him that, but he has many names.”

The demon grins horribly and winks, then slowly takes a handful of Dean’s hair and pulls his head back, straightening to his full height as he exposes Dean’s throat. 

Sam leans forward slightly, coiling his body for a last-ditch, desperate spring. 

And that’s when JoJo’s head explodes. 

That’s all Sam can think, that JoJo’s head has spontaneously lost its cohesion, but then he registers the sound of breaking window glass, the stray pellets from the shotgun blast that fragmented JoJo’s skull flying inches in front of his face, as adrenaline floods his system and time seems to slow. Blood and brain matter fly everywhere—spraying over Dean, splattering Sam’s face in a fine, warm spray. 

Sam has already started to lunge for JoJo when it happens, but flinches back instinctively, has to check his forward momentum and rock back on his heels to change course. He pivots to his left, sweeping his forearm up and under the biker’s gun arm so that his shot goes into the ceiling. Sam follows through and gets the guy’s arm in an elbow lock, twisting until the pistol falls out of his hand. Sam shoves him away and scoops the gun off the floor just as the other demon rushes him from behind. Sam jams the pistol into the guy’s gut and fires. 

It doesn’t kill him, doesn’t even bring him down. Sam only has a split second to wonder what the hell he’s going to do next before both demons come roaring out of their unfortunate hosts in tornadoes of black smoke. The one who’d attacked Sam collapses on top of him, draping across Sam’s bowed shoulders like a punctured balloon. Sam lists to the side and the body slides off Sam’s back to the floor, where it lies unmoving.

Jax bursts in then, shotgun in hand, his charge through the back door sending rotted wood flying everywhere. Jax sweeps the room with his gun barrel, but there’s nothing left for him to shoot. The demons are already gone and the host bodies are lying in heaps where they fell, left for dead by the demons that got them here. 

Dean groans then, and Sam gets up and goes to him. He kneels down in front of Dean on shaking legs and Dean tries to draw back, instinctively avoiding anyone in proximity. That one little flinch tells Sam volumes about what’s been done to Dean, and it has Sam wanting to pump a few more bullets into the demon’s discarded meatsuits, just on principle. Dean’s been missing somewhere in the neighborhood of twelve hours, time to do plenty of damage, physical and mental. 

Sam carefully takes Dean’s face in his hands and tilts it up so he can see how he is, so Dean can see that it’s Sam who has him now.

“Dean, hey…I’m here. You’re gonna be alright,” Sam says, just talking to let Dean know he’s there, while Jax starts working on cutting the rope off him. 

Sam vaguely registers that others of the Samcro contingent are entering the room, but he doesn’t think they really saw anything that Jax is going to have a hard time explaining. Sam doesn’t have any attention to spare for them right now either way.

“Sammy,” Dean croaks, finally opening his one good eye enough to focus a little.

“Yeah, I’m here,” Sam says. “We’re gonna get you out of here, get you fixed up.”

“’Kay,” Dean says. “You know…” he starts, then coughs, wincing painfully and Sam adds broken ribs to the mounting list of Dean’s injuries he’s tallying in his head, just based on what he can tell at a glance..

“Be quiet for once, will you?” Sam says on autopilot, concentrating on helping Jax get Dean loose from the chair without causing any more damage.

“Your visions are busted, man,” Dean finishes finally.

Sam lets a half-hysterical laugh escape.

“I know, dude. I know.”

**

Jax eventually got Sam to come back to the clubhouse for a few hours, finally convinced him that the Samcro bodyguards they’d left at the hospital were reliable enough to keep Dean safe in the middle of the continuously staffed ICU unit at St. Thomas. Or his willingness to leave his brother might have had more to do with the odd words Sam muttered over the doorsill, the bizarre preparations Sam had made before he could be coaxed to leave the room—Jax is pretty sure there were condiments involved—but whatever. Jax will take it. 

And now Sam’s on Jax’ bed, resting face down in a pose identical to the one earlier at the motel. _The world’s biggest six-year-old_ , Jax thinks, snorting a laugh at his own sappiness, which is just all over the place today. 

And maybe that’s the explanation for the way his hand wanders over to touch Sam, smoothing his hair back from his face, rubbing his back and generally just petting the big man, like the pussy he’s suddenly turned into. Sam slits an eye open at him at first, but he doesn’t say anything and the gentle touch does seem to be relaxing him, so. They’re behind closed doors and no one but them ever has to know.

Sam is breathing more evenly when he stirs, reaches behind him with one hand and pulls his t-shirt over his head and off. Jax isn’t sure what that’s supposed to mean, but his eyes are drawn to the scars on Sam’s back, the ones he’s touched, mapped with his mouth. He runs his finger over the biggest one, a slash across Sam’s right shoulder blade that looks like it was made by a knife, less ragged than some of the others, which could have been made by anything considering their odd conformations.

He keeps touching, running his fingers across the dips and lines of muscle and Sam shivers, gooseflesh washing down his back in a wave. Jax is getting hard, wanting, and it’s the wrong time, wrong circumstances to start something, but Sam just does that to him, flips right and wrong on their heads until Jax doesn’t care about them anymore. If he ever did.

Still, he’s got some blood left in his brain, because he has the presence of mind to remember that Sam’s upset, worried sick about his brother, and the last thing he probably wants to do is fuck around. Or that’s what Jax thinks, until his hand slips beneath the waistband of Sam’s jeans and Sam shifts under it, arches his hips up toward Jax’ hand and lets a tiny little moan escape. 

“Fuck,” Jax swears softly, more turned on by the minute, and when Sam reaches under his belly and undoes his jeans, pushing them down and off, Jax is done. There’s no way he’s resisting this. 

Jax stands up and strips quickly, comes back to touch a now completely naked Sam, cupping Sam’s ass cheeks in both hands, thumbs rubbing gently up the crease. Sam spreads his legs wide and Jax moans out an _oh fuck_ at the display. 

Jax leans down to lick, smiling at Sam’s uncontrolled jerk in response to the touch of Jax’ facial hair against the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. Sam settles, though, a very fine trembling starting up in his legs as he struggles to hold still. Jax tongues at the tightly furled opening, coaxing it to relax a little at a time, teasing with the moistened tip of a finger until Sam is breathing fast. Jax uses his left hand to hold Sam open, the slides his other underneath Sam to palm his hardening cock. 

“Oh…that’s…yeah,” Sam says nonsensically, and Jax figures he’s ready to move things along a bit. Jax gets up and grabs a small bottle off the dresser. 

“Forget it…just do it,” Sam growls, and Jax starts to realize what’s really going on here.

“Shut up,” Jax says, pouring half the bottle onto Sam’s asscrack and tossing it down on the bed beside Sam.

He’s able to work his fingers inside fairly quickly with the slick easing the way, and Sam humps back against Jax’ hand roughly, like he wants it to hurt. At this point Jax thinks that’s exactly what Sam does want. 

“Just fuck me,” Sam gasps. “Now…come on, you pussy…want it, do it hard,” he babbles, reaching back and grabbing at Jax’ thigh where he’s kneeling between Sam’s. 

“I’ll fuck you when I’m goddamned good and ready,” Jax says firmly, slapping Sam’s hand away, but the truth is, he’s past ready, so fucking turned on. He’s not particularly proud of that response to whatever fucked-up shit is going on in Sam’s brain, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to hurt Sam just because he thinks he needs to be punished for something. 

Still, he thinks Sam’s ready enough to make this okay. He pours some more lube into his palm and slicks his cock with a couple of quick swipes of his palm, biting his lip at the way Sam tilts his hips up for him, ready and wanting.

Jax guides the head of his dick to Sam’s opening, presses hard enough to pop the head through the ring of muscle and stops. He holds back even though the sound Sam makes has him wanting to sink inside him and pound him until he screams. Especially with the way Sam is pressing back against him, trying to make him do it, make Jax hurt him…it’s exciting and off-putting in almost equal measure and Jax swears in frustration.

Jax pauses, braced on trembling arms, then eases his way in as Sam hisses and grunts, so tight around Jax that it almost hurts him, let alone Sam. Jax tries to be patient, pushing and pulling back, rocking gently, until he finally sinks all the way inside Sam. Then he leans down, draping himself across Sam’s back and bites his shoulder once, hard.

Sam collapses down, finally turns his face to the side so Jax can see him. He looks wrecked, pained and desperate, eyes watering like he might cry, or already has been, and Jax holds them flush together with one arm hooked around Sam’s shoulder, mouthing wetly at the bite mark he made. After a few seconds Sam writhes, pushes up against him and moves to raise up onto his elbows. Jax backs off a little and reaches for a little more slick to ease the way, smearing it sloppily around where they’re connected before he starts moving tentatively inside Sam, twisting his hips. 

Sam drops his head to hang between his shoulders, panting heavily and letting an occasional soft grunt escape, but he seems a bit more relaxed now. Jax straightens up and starts to thrust with intent, pulling almost all the way out before he sinks back in. It’s an excruciatingly slow slide, out and in, eyes fluttering closed at the incredible friction, the tight pull of Sam locked around his dick, the obscenely wet noises they make as they come together. 

“Come on, come on…” Sam is chanting, and Jax does, begins to fuck him harder, faster, because he’s beyond holding back. But because some small part of him is still insisting that he make his point, he braces himself with one hand and reaches for Sam’s with the other, guiding it to Sam’s cock for him to get himself off.

Sam refuses, let’s his hand fall to the bed, and that’s it. Jax loses it then, pounds into Sam as hard as he can manage, hips smacking together hard and fast and Jax punctuates his thrusts with the words.

“It’s. Not. Your. Fault,” he grinds out, then sinks deeply into Sam and holds there, empties inside him, swearing with his face pressed into Sam’s shoulder.

Jax only pants there for a few seconds before he pulls out with a groan and flips Sam over onto his back. Sam gasps at the abrupt loss of contact and then frowns at Jax. Jax just gives him a stern look and leans over him, takes Sam’s half-hard cock into his mouth and sucks hard. Sam tries to push him away, but Jax pulls off and shakes his head.

“No. Just stop it and take it like a man,” Jax says, going back down on him and sucking him to full hardness. Sam lies still after that, not exactly into it, but not fighting anymore either. Jax uses his hands and his mouth on Sam until he finally tenses and clenches his hand in Jax’ hair in warning. Jax pulls off and jacks him the rest of the way through it, rolling over onto his side on the bed when Sam is done. 

Sam’s breathing has returned mostly to normal before he finally speaks.

“Happy now?” he says, and Jax thinks there’s a tiny spark of dry humor in his tone.

Jax just grunts in response and scoots up the bed, collapses tiredly on his stomach. 

“Some people don’t know when to quit,” Jax mutters into the pillow.

**

“He’s looking a lot better,” Jax says, nodding in Dean’s direction as he sets a fresh beer down in front of Sam, sits across from him.

The list of physical injuries Dean incurred turned out to include three broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, numerous “contusions and lacerations,” a few burn marks and a concussion, presumably from where the possessed bikers hit him over the head during his abduction, although Dean understandably doesn’t remember anything about that part. Sam’s actually relieved that the damage wasn’t a lot worse, or more permanent, considering that Dean’s captors were possessed and who sent them. 

_Yellow Eyes._ Sam shivers in spite of himself. Possibly they just hadn’t gotten around to the really interesting stuff yet. The thought makes Sam feel sick.

But he can’t keep thinking about that. He jerks his attention back to Jax and nods in answer to his question, takes a healthy swallow of his beer, watching Dean holding court across the room. Somehow Dean being an invalid, bruised and beaten and barely recognizable, seems to make him more attractive to the ladies of Samcro, not less. Sam’s never claimed to understand the way women think. 

And as worried and remorseful as Sam had been at first, he mostly stopped feeling sorry for Dean around the time he had recovered enough to hit on the nurses from his hospital bed at the small St. Thomas Hospital. Sam hadn’t really wanted to move him that far from the scene in the beginning, but Jax had convinced him that Dean would be better off in the outlaw-friendly environment of the small Charming facility.

Once they were back at the Samcro compound, Connie had taken one look at Dean and put herself in sole charge of his care. Sam’s keeping a close eye on Dean too, of course, but it’s kind of nice to have someone help with the hands-on stuff. She’s doing a great job, too, Sam thinks, and Dean isn’t nearly as bitchy with her mother-hen act as he gets with Sam. 

He inspects his brother from behind his bottle, takes a sip. Dean looks up and catches Sam’s eye for a moment, gives Sam a hint of a smirk and a twitch of his eyebrow that manages to convey _I’m okay_ and _You good?_ and _End of the day, it’s still just you and me_. Dean’s still pretty pale, but Sam’s seen him look a lot worse and his head hurts from dwelling on what could have happened. Again.

“He’s milking the shit out of it,” Sam says.

“Hey, I don’t blame him,” Jax replies, raising his eyebrows at Connie as she leans over Dean, no doubt giving him a nice view of her cleavage at the same time as she checks one of his dressings. 

In fact, Samcro has practically adopted them, Sam thinks. Sam has noticed a distinct rise in the amount of respect that he’s personally being accorded among the bikers. Jax says it’s because they think Sam took all three of Dean’s abductors out singlehandedly and unarmed. Neither Sam nor Jax has been anxious to correct that assumption. 

Samcro had tossed the town of Lodi pretty thoroughly after the incident, but no remnants of the Hermanos de Justicia had turned up. The club assumes that they’ve all scattered and are lying low to avoid retaliation. Sam thinks it’s just as likely that the rest of the Hermanos didn’t have a clue what was up with the guys who kidnapped Dean, are probably bewildered as to the reason Samcro is suddenly gunning for them. It doesn’t really affect him and Dean either way, so he hasn’t spent too much time worrying about it.

Clay had personally welcomed Dean back to the clubhouse when he’d been discharged from the hospital, which had shocked Sam. Clay had given him the impression that he was decidedly against dealing with the Winchesters from the start, in fact was barely tolerating their presence. 

Jax had taken it in stride, had explained later that it was a matter of honor. Dean had been assaulted while technically under their protection, so Samcro was doing what it could to make things right by offering them a sanctuary while Dean finished healing. 

Dean’s response to the MC’s pledge of protection had been something along the lines of, “Yeah, because that worked out so well the first time,” but at least he waited to say it until Sam was putting him to bed, so that Jax and Sam were the only ones within earshot. Sam counted that a win. 

He sits at his table and watches Dean and Connie banter and flirt with each other, and he starts to let himself believe that Dean’s going to be okay.

And Sam’s not exactly doing too badly here himself.

**

Jax never asks Sam to come to bed with him in so many words, but they’ve nearly perfected the dance over the last week or two. Jax leaves his bedroom door open and Sam follows him a while later, after the party in the main room has calmed down. 

Tonight the bedroom is empty when Sam walks in, but he can hear Jax washing up in the adjoining bathroom and he shuts the door quietly behind him. Sam’s not embarrassed by what they’re doing—the only person whose opinion matters to him is Dean, and Dean already knows as much as he’s going to about it—but he gets the feeling it’s not necessarily something Jax wants to discuss with his brothers. Jax is straightforward and unapologetic about what he wants from Sam when it’s just them, and Sam may have a temporary reputation as a badass, but he’s still an outsider to Charming. Sam figures that’s probably a lot bigger strike against him around these parts than the fact that he has a dick.

He also thinks maybe he’s going to miss it a little when he and Dean finally leave, though, a suspicion that only gets stronger when Jax comes out of the bathroom stark naked, skin golden in the lamplight, shining with a thin film of moisture. Sam starts stripping off his clothes with an efficiency that has nothing of seduction in it, and Jax doesn’t even blink, just waits for Sam to get naked. 

Sam sits down on the edge of the bed to take off his shoes. As soon as he gets his jeans off his hips, Jax moves in, pushing him back to lie down on the bed, and Sam kicks his jeans the rest of the way off. Jax stretches himself out on top of Sam with an athletic, sinuous grace that is one of the things Sam finds most attractive about the guy. He’s lean and strong and beautiful, and so different from anyone else that Sam has ever been with. 

Sam doesn’t worry about complications here, who’s going to suffer if things don’t work out. There’s no future in this anyway, only the moment, and they can both live with that.

“Stop thinking so loud,” Jax murmurs into his neck, and Sam chuckles low in his throat.

“Hey, somebody’s gotta do it. Wouldn’t want you to worry any wrinkles into your pretty face, Goldilocks,” Sam says, ruffling Jax’ messy blonde hair. 

Jax bites down hard on his collarbone and Sam groans and shivers, rolls his hips up against Jax’ muscled thigh. Jax has found that spot on Sam’s neck often enough by now to know exactly what this does to Sam, and he chuckles evilly.

“You forget…I know how to make you pay for your smart mouth, Winchester,” Jax says, smirking, and slides down Sam’s body, pushes Sam’s legs apart and starts tonguing his ass.

“That was kinda what I was going for…oh, fuck,” Sam grunts, spreading his legs further and curling his hips upward to give him better access, more than willing to help Jax out. If this is what the man considers revenge, Sam’s totally onboard with it.

When Jax finally slides inside him, Sam welcomes the aching stretch of his cock, the pressure of his belly against Sam’s own hard length. But he thinks it’s almost as good to see Jax’ face like this, mouth softly open, eyes liquid and almost desperate looking with want. It’s hot and dirty and exactly what Sam wants; then it gets even hotter when Sam wraps his legs around Jax’ back, pulling him in and changing the angle to one that’s so much better for him. Every thrust punches the breath out of Sam, makes him moan and dig his fingers into Jax’ hips. 

Sam reaches up and hauls Jax down by the back of the neck for a wide, messy kiss, hot and uncoordinated and good. He uses his other hand on himself, stroking his cock firm and fast.

“Yeah,” Jax groans. “Fuck, you’re tight.”

Sam’s orgasm boils up fast and hard and Sam arches into it, coming slick and hot on his own belly. Jax swears and puts his back into it, thrusting a few more times before he sinks deep and stays. Sam can feel his dick twitching and pulsing inside him, and he pulls Jax in tight to keep him there for as long as it lasts.

Jax collapses onto Sam’s chest and pants for a few seconds. Regaining the power of speech, he says, “Knew I could shut you up.”

Sam chuckles and Jax groans at the pressure it puts on his sensitive dick. 

“Not bad for a princess,” he says. 

For two people who’ve had as much sex as they have, Sam and Jax don’t really touch all that much otherwise. Even in the afterglow, like now, they mostly just lie side by side for a while until Sam finally rouses, gets up and finds a place he can stretch out to get some sleep. There’s too much of him to share a normal-sized bed with anyone, and Jax isn’t exactly tiny.

But still, sometimes there’s a little more… Sam doesn’t know if Jax is even aware of the way he’s rubbing his thumb back and forth across Sam’s hipbone, but he doesn’t point it out.

“You never think about settling down in one place?” Jax asks.

“I did once, but I don’t think that’s in the cards for me anymore. Whatever’s coming for me, I’m gonna go out there and face it…no hiding.”

A few moments pass in silence.

“Dean’s doing better,” Jax says idly.

“Yeah, we gotta head out soon, for sure, but Dean’s handling this stretch of downtime better than he usually does.” 

“Samcro’s hospitality agrees with him.”

“Yeah. I guess it does,” Sam says, smiling faintly.

“So how much longer do you think?” 

Sam rolls toward Jax and throws a leg over his, holds himself up on his elbows so he can look down at Jax. 

He grins. 

“As long as it takes.”


End file.
